stay
by NomadicQuill
Summary: Set during Season 5 after House and Wilson make up. Cameron is a difficult woman to nail down but he tries. House/Cameron, Wilson/Cameron. Warning: really short fic.


Title: stay

Rating: PG-13

Warning:

Word Count: 351

Spoilers: None

Summary: Set during Season 5 after House and Wilson make up. Cameron is a difficult woman to nail down but he tries.

Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, just borrowing them for my drama fix.

Author's Note: Came home late and this was burning to be written. I hope you like.

She never stays.

A quick look at her watch, a groan, and she rolls away from me just as the credits roll. "It's getting late," she says.

"You could stay. I wouldn't mind."

"No, no," she runs her fingers through her hair then pulls it back. "I can't sleep anywhere but my own bed."

I know it's not true. So does she, but it doesn't need to be said. This thing is fueled on boundaries never being defined.

I just wish I could get her to stay, just once.

She sits on my couch, her back stiff, seeming to ponder getting up. I let my hand hover over her shoulder blade before biting my lip and sliding my hand across it. She leans into my touch. I sweep my palm back and forth across her shoulders and her head falls back. I hold my breath but I think she can hear my racing heart anyway.

"Stay," I whisper, gathering enough courage to slide my fingertips over the soft skin of her neck and into her hair. "Allison."

She shifts, turning her knees toward me and looks down with a soft smile on her lips. "James," she says and cups my cheek, fanning out her fingers and lightly caressing my ear. "I have to go."

Through the pale light of the television, I see her shadow melt into the darkness and appear by the door.

"Thank you for the food," she says. "And everything else."

Same line. Same formality.

"No problem," I reply with false sincerity. She looks down but she doesn't come back. Instead she slips out and closes the door quietly behind her. My apartment feels emptier than it did before she showed up.

I flop back on the couch and stare at my ceiling, praying she changes her mind. She doesn't, like always. We're pushing at the fence of our friendship and she's smart enough to feel it, even respect it by leaving. I turn over and bury my face in the couch, in the warmth her body left behind. Sometimes I wish she respected me a little less.

She never comes over at a decent time.

Not that I keep decent hours but would it kill her to show up before the bars close? She walks past me, into my apartment and I take a whiff just to see.

"I'm not drunk House," she says.

"At this hour I would be."

She laughs softly and the sound makes me want to cup her cheeks and kiss her. I can't tell her this though. This thing is built on looking the other way. Instead, I head straight to the bedroom like she isn't here, as she expects. I play the part because it's the only way I can get her stay, and if I were honest with myself, which I'm not, but if I were I would admit to knowing that she is only one that will stay when the worst of me rears its anger-fueled head. Even the Wilsons of the world have limits.

I peel off my clothes and listen to her heels hit the wood floor with a _clank-thump_. I imagine her pulling her belt off and sliding her slacks down her hips. She never lets me watch. A rustle of fabric makes me wonder what it would be like to watch her shirt join her pants for once. That's just a dream.

By the time I'm under the covers with the lights off, that's when I feel her enter the room. Stealth, panther-like she pads over, the sheet lifts and her warm skin is pressed against my side.

"Miss me?" she asks.

_Yes._ "No," I reply.

She slides over my body, straddling my hips and lying flat on top of me. I feel her nose press against my neck while her breath ghosts over my skin. She's naked, this time, while I still have on only boxer-briefs. I curse inwardly. _What are we doing?_ I wonder but to ask would rip her from this cocoon. Instead, I cup one ass-cheek and give a squeeze, just to see what she'll do. She grins against my neck but doesn't make a single move. Oddly enough, neither to do I.

I'm too tired, worn out from the day and maybe that's why she comes over as late as she does. Maybe she's hoping my defenses will down and I won't demand that she face who she's with.

She's right. There are times when I hate her for it, but I can't seem to tell her to leave.

Sometimes I wish she respected me more.


End file.
